


there are no strings on me

by EverSparrow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Death Eaters, Death Threats, Inaugaration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25963375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverSparrow/pseuds/EverSparrow
Summary: In which Draco Malfoy becomes a pawn in someone else's game. TW for death threats
Kudos: 5





	there are no strings on me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for QLFC on FFN (It ended up winning Judge's Pick! :)  
> The song is, of course, I've Got No Strings from Pinnochio.   
> I love Draco so I am sorry to do this to him :(  
> Cross-posted on FFN

_ I’ve got no strings _

_ So I have fun _

_ I’m not tied up to anyone _

He had known that this was bound to happen.

Ever since that day, when he’d stumbled down the stairs for breakfast to see only his mother hunched over at the breakfast table, her head in her hands, he’d known.

That had barely been a day ago and now his mother appears in his doorframe, leaning her head wearily against the wood. 

“Draco.” So many times he’s heard her speak that name, but never like this. There is fear in her voice, Draco realizes, real fear that sends a shiver down his spine, a snake-like sort of chill that makes his blood turn to ice. 

“Is it time?” He hates the way his voice comes out, like a child’s, weak and high and full of fear. Now is not the time to be afraid. 

His mother doesn’t even say a word, doesn’t touch his shoulder to reassure him, doesn’t kiss his head and give him words of encouragement. No, this is something he has to do on his own. 

The room is dark once they arrive, cold, and the only light is coming from a row of dim lanterns that spill eerie yellow shadows across the long table in the center. On either side of this table, the darkest of men sit, the ones with the blackest of souls. This terrible, evil family that he’s been born into, the one he’s accepted without question. The Death Eaters. 

“Welcome, my boy.” 

Draco’s face drains of all color at the voice that greets him, and he is a boy again, a scrawny, terrified little child, always crying, always too weak, always running to his mother. But he can’t run to Narcissa now. No, because she has taken her place at the table and is staring at him, expressionless. Willing him to speak.

“My lord,” Draco says quietly, bowing his head in respect just as his father has taught him. Lord Voldemort is not royalty, not really, but he may as well be for all the things one has to remember when speaking to him. All his life, Draco has wondered if he is really as powerful as they all believe, or if the Dark Lord’s power resides more in the fear that he drapes around his shoulders, wearing the shadows like a cloak. 

“I assume you have been informed of the  _ unfortunate  _ capture of your father.” Voldemort sits at the very end of the table, his gaze resting on its surface. His face is lit from above by the lanterns, and it sparks a dark glimmer in his eyes. “It has left an extremely gaping hole in my ranks, I must say.” With these words, the man — if you can still call him that — looks up at Draco, tilting his chin as he does so to reveal a sickening smile that makes Draco’s knees nearly buckle. He has never been one for bravery.

“I have been informed of this, my lord.” Draco forces himself to meet Voldemort’s gaze, forces himself to look into that cold, empty face with an equally solemn stare of his own. “My mother has told me you wish to speak with me.” 

“And I do, Draco, I do.” Voldemort extends a long, white finger, beckoning Draco closer, and Draco feels his feet moving forward as if he isn’t even controlling them. He  _ is  _ controlling them, though, isn’t he?  _ One step. Two steps.  _ “I need someone to join my army, Draco. Someone strong. Someone who I know will  _ never  _ betray me.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Draco doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do as he walks closer and closer to the Dark Lord, closer and closer to his leering face, until suddenly, he is stopped, standing close enough to touch this — this  _ monster  _ before him. 

“Would you like to be that someone, Draco Lucius Malfoy? Would you like to become one of my most trusted allies, my agents of darkness, my most loyal  _ friends _ ?” Voldemort’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes, and yet he offers it up anyway, a gesture of goodwill, or maybe one of persuasion. Either way, it does not stir Draco’s feelings. He takes a deep breath. 

“If you wish it, my lord.”  _ Never disobey the Dark Lord, Draco.  _ His father’s words echo in his ears, and Draco can’t help but wonder if he’s been under the control of this darkness his whole life, if any choices he’s made have ever really been his at all.  _ Agree with him. Look him in the eye. You must have his trust, or you will have nothing.  _ Look where his father is now, what with all this advice. 

Suddenly, Voldemort stands up sharply, his chair screeching as he punches through the air, and Draco feels like his heart stops beating. One of the lanterns snufs out, and Draco shoots a quick glance to the long row of Death Eaters before him. Their expressions are solemn, cold, unreadable, and yet Draco is certain he catches a glimpse of  _ pity  _ in some of them, a sadness that makes the room feel even icier than he thought was possible. He’s done something wrong, he realizes, and his heart sinks down to his shoes. 

_ They’ve got strings _

_ But you can see _

_ There are no strings on me _

“This is not about what  _ I  _ wish, Draco. There are many things I wish for, things that I have sold my very  _ soul  _ for. Will you sell your soul to this cause, Draco? To be on the winning side of this war? Because there  _ is _ war coming, Draco.” Voldemort’s face is now inches from his own, and Draco is paralyzed. It’s as if he’s been Imperiused, as if Voldemort’s hold on him is tangible, pulling his mind closer with a thick cord, and he doesn’t think he can move, even if his life depends on it. “And I would so  _ hate  _ to see you ruined by it.” 

What does he wish? Draco doesn’t know. He’s never known, and yet, he’s never seen things so clearly as he does in this room. His life has always been in the hands of this man, whether Voldemort has known it or not. His life has led to this moment, his very existence groomed to be a part of this dark regime. 

“Your silence concerns me, Draco.” Voldemort slides his wand languidly from his pockets, brandishing it gingerly like it’s carved from gold. “Your father may reside in Azkaban, but that does not mean I cannot reach him. And your mother sits at this very table. Do not think for a moment that I will not hesitate to do whatever it takes to  _ motivate  _ you.” 

Draco’s hands shake, and he looks at his mother before he can stop himself. Her face is white, and he can barely make out the slight movement of her lips as she mouths something at him:  _ say yes _ . He wants to cry out, wants to yell at this man, but he is silent, he is compliant, as if an invisible hand is clamped over his mouth. 

“I wish to join your cause.” The words slip out of his mouth and fall into the air, and Voldemort smiles, a cruel, twisted grin that digs like a knife into Draco’s flesh. 

“You do not know how much that pleases me to hear, Draco,” Voldemort says, grabbing Draco’s wrist before he can move a muscle and pulling back the sleeve of his robes to reveal the skin of his arm. “I have something very important planned for you, Draco, something that will turn the tide of the wizarding world for good.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” His voice wavers, stretched thin and ready to snap. Voldemort quickly pulls out his wand and mutters an incantation that Draco has heard in his nightmares, dark words that send black smoke pouring from the tip of Voldemort’s wand and encircling where his white hand clasps onto Draco’s wrist. Suddenly, there is a hiss, and the smoke pours into Draco’s skin, and he can’t help but scream as the magic stabs into his arm, and it’s tearing his arm in two, burning him, and he’s known pain before but not like this, this searing, raw blackness that is eating him alive —

And then it is done, and he stares down at the mark on his skin, the skull and the snake and the midnight ink, and he wants to cry but he doesn’t. 

“You are one of us now, Draco. A Death Eater.” Voldemort smiles darkly at him, and the rest of the Death Eaters stand from their chairs in acknowledgement. “Wear the title well.” He gestures to the end of the table, and Draco sees that there is an empty chair there. His chair. 

He takes his seat, not looking up at any of the faces around him. He is shaking, and he has never been this terrified in his life. There is no coming back from this, not the Dark Mark. This is servitude for life. 

“Would you like to hear what I have planned for you, my boy?” Voldemort is sitting at the end of the table again, staring straight into Draco’s soul, and Draco nods solemnly. He can’t even speak anymore. He is nothing but a puppet. Voldemort’s puppet. “I want you to kill Albus Dumbledore.” 

Kill Albus Dumbledore. The words sound so simple coming out of Voldemort’s mouth, and yet Draco doesn’t think he’s ever heard a harder task in his life. 

“But my lord —”

“And if you fail, I will kill your family and friends and anyone you’ve ever held dear.” Voldemort’s smile is stuck on his face as if someone taped it there, and yet his eyes burn with a dark fire that’s only amplified by the glow of the lanterns. “So I will repeat myself: I want you to kill Albus Dumbledore.” 

_ I will kill _ .  _ I will kill. I will kill. _ Draco hears the words in his head, thundering in his ears, and tears prick the corners of his eyes again. He is a puppet, dangling on a string, controlled by the very man who has controlled his parents, who has controlled everything Draco has ever known, who now owns his very life. Has he ever had a choice? Has this always been his path? Has he always been a pawn in a game so much bigger than himself? 

The player sits before him, calculating and cold, and Draco raises his eyes to meet him, breathing heavily to stop the shivers that course through his body.  _ You must have his trust, or you will have nothing.  _

But even a pawn has a turn to move. Draco may be under his influence, but he has a mind of his own. He has a life, and one that he will continue to live, no matter what he has to do to guard it. Because the choice to live by someone else’s rules is still a choice, isn’t it?

From now on, he serves the Dark Lord. He is a Death Eater. And he will keep his family safe. 

“Yes, my lord.” 


End file.
